Stu-stu-studio

Well, monday rolls around again, and though I wasn't booked to work anywhere, here I be, in the studio of an agency on Rathbone Street. Looks OK. I'm told I'll be working on direct mail shortly. Hmm. Can't complain, or more accurately, turn the work down if it's offered, but I had planned on sorting some other stuff out. Like cleaning the flat. Woo.

Last week I was back at the dadvertising agency on Dean Street, which came and went, moderately painlessly. Lots of mocking up to do, which was slightly tedious – One of the slight perks of doing such things these days is that people don't use spraymount anymore, so you might live a bit longer anyway. I wasn't sleeping very well though, and one of the corollary risks of running on empty like this while working with scalpels was lopping an errant thumb tip off in an especially enthusiastic bout of trimming. I've jus checked though, and all digits remain intact, including that all important middle digit, which is handy because..

I did find out this morning though that I wasn't getting paid overtime for the evening work I did, which takes the piss a bit, as it was only time and a half, and I only did two and a half hours anyway. Gee thanks, tightwads. The girl at the agency put it down to them being a small agency and not having allowances for overheads like that etc etc.. blah blah.

Weekend was ok. Went to a Spanish place on Hanway Street, where I drank lots of bottles of Spanish beer, which somone else was paying for on their tab, then promptly regretted it when it came to divvying up at the end.

Saturday went to Clapham North for drinks, then wound up going to a nondescript party up the road off Camberwell Grove. Someone was playing somewhat nondescript drum and bass, so I stood by the decks and worked my way through two plates of free pizza (leaving the crusts) before vanishing bedward.

Nearly Easter, then. Not sure what I'm doing for it. Might go back to Manchester, but I'm not sure. The appeal of sleeping on couches for an entire weekend has started to lose some of its native charm recently.. not sure why but I definitely like waking up with two pences and cig butts stuck to my face less than I did a couple of years ago. On the other hand, I'm not sure who's going to still be around Londres for the festivities, so if there isn't anyone, perhaps I should get organising a solo easter egg hunt for myself. Or maybe dress as a giant rabbit and befriend the alcoholics and nutters of Camberwell.

Which reminds me. Whilst walking up Camberwell Church Street the other day I saw a Rasta guy dressed in black with 'DJ SILVER PRINCE' written on the back of his jacket in tippex. The cross bars of his bicycle had some kind of makeshift soundsystem attached, and though he wasn't playing anything, one could only surmise what he might if he had chosen too. My money's on some scratchy 70s dub (or the theme from fraggle rock) Either way, it's times like this you wish you had a camera, or one that worked anyway.